


A Tender Kind of Fire

by Rigel99



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: BAMF James Bond, BAMF Q, Casino Royale, First Meetings, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-24 15:10:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7512983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rigel99/pseuds/Rigel99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only thing that got him out of Le Chiffre's clutches alive was the thought of his Quartermaster, a soft bed and copious amounts of salve.</p><p>Pain takes many different forms. We can either embrace it or let it devour us. </p><p>James Bond has his own methods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kimmy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kimmy/gifts).



** _Whoosh Whoosh_ **

“You’re a foolish man, Mr Bond.” Le Chiffre circled the naked agent, bound ankle and wrist to the chair.

** _Whoosh Whoosh_ **

“The money means nothing to your government. Even less perhaps than your life.” He stopped and stood, the pendulumed rope swinging in a lazy circle to his side.

** _Whoosh THWACK!_ **

Bond’s scream was brief but loud, his breathing hard, fast and ragged. But he hid it well behind the near maniacal laughter.

“Le Chiffre.” A shadow appeared at the door of the damp, dingy, underground space. “You’re needed a moment.”

Le Chiffre lay the heavy rope on one of Bond’s bare shoulders, a hand on the other. “Don’t go anywhere, Mr Bond. We’re just warming up,” he whispered in his ear.

The door slammed shut behind him.

_“I’m here, Bond. I’m not going anywhere.”_ The voice of the man he had only seen in passing at River House just before leaving for the mission but had yet to meet in person. The new Quartermaster of MI6 spoke low and soft in the camouflaged earpiece tucked inside his ear. Despite himself, Bond felt soothed by the unfamiliar tone, the prim and proper diction, brokering no disagreement or argument. Marginally soothed, but soothed nonetheless. Despite the ball-crushing exercise he was in midst of enduring.

“Funny. I always imagined our first time I’d be doing the pounding. Right now, I’d settle for a tub of salve and a good working over from MI6’s new Quartermaster…”

Q, it would seem was familiar with Bond’s brand of humour in the face of danger, no doubt he’d furnished himself with every aspect of Bond’s life, past and present, before taking on this mission. 

He huffed a response, recognising Bond’s attempts to distract himself from the pain. _“M warned me you could be an insufferable prick, 007.”_

Bond was struggling against his binds. Futilely. “The woman knows me too well. Ironic that right at this moment in time it’s my prick that’s actually doing suffering.”

_“Bond.” He paused. “Get out of this alive and I’ll drain Boots Pharmacy dry of salve…”_

A smile curled the agent’s lips. “Is this a new motivational technique you’re testing out on the Double Os, Quartermaster? If so, you’ve made an excellent start,” he breathed, heart rate levelling out, just as the door opened and Le Chiffre reappeared, lips curled in a tight greedy smile of the psychopath who relished these perks of the job just a little too much, regardless his denials of the fact.

“Oh good. You’re back….” said Bond sarcastically. Sarcasm, alas, does little to numb the bundles of nerves currently under Le Chiffre’s attention.

Q never broke contact. He was there throughout the agony for the agent, doing what he could to share the pain, for what it was worth, countries and timezones apart. He did though, break the skin of his own lip. Right before he heard Le Chiffre beg for his life and the sound of the gun that rid the world of the evil fucking bastard.

_“Bond? Bond? Are you still with us?”_

Q breathed a sigh of relief at the groan that came down the line. “For the most pa—.” 

Then the line went dead.

* * *

It was seven weeks before Bond returned to MI6. Seven weeks during which he’d recuperated, lost his heart to a Treasury employee, gone AWOL with the woman, was betrayed by her and then lost her to the waters of the Adriatic. James Bond never was one to do things by any other measure than full blown, off the chart and into the stratosphere for good measure.

Q could only imagine that the Universe thought him too entertaining to let him die. Though on the day when he materialised in Q Branch, Q absorbed in dismantling a faulty weapon, the Quartermaster thought he perhaps would have been better off dead than come under the scrutiny of the infamous Naval Commander.

A polite cough brought his presence to Q’s attention. Q turned. Of course, he had read his file, read the files of all the Double Os cover to cover. They were each a variation of devastating in their own regard.

Bond, however, was different. Devastating was perhaps too kind a word. 007 practically _owned_ devastation. It took Q all of five seconds being on the receiving end of those bright, blue, searching eyes to clock that fact.

Bond was also, for want of a better word, rather direct.

He took another step forward. “I checked the stockmarket shares in Savlon on my way here, Quartermaster. I noted only a marginal rise in the price.”

Q didn’t miss a beat with his retort. “I would have thought seven weeks long to recover, Bond. I hear you’re quite… resilient… in that regard.” The idle glide of his gaze down and up Bond’s suited frame gave the agent a moment’s pause. He hadn’t quite expected _that_ response.

“What can I say? It was touch and blow there for a while. I’m still a little tender.” Drier and more deadpan than a skillet in a desert.

Q pushed himself from his desk and unfolded his arms, pulling down the hem of his cardigan as he stepped right into Bond’s personal space. Bond didn’t flinch. That didn’t mean he wasn’t rather inwardly impressed by the show of bravado from the fresh-faced man. Bond noted that perhaps it would be a fool's mistake to interpret the youthful outer appearance as anything other than that.

“Why don’t you leave it with me, 007, I’ll see what I can do,” Q finished, turning rapidly on his heel before hitting the end of that sentence to resume his dismantling of the weapon.

Bond mirrored the movement, pausing briefly at the entrance to pluck his phone from his jacket pocket to check the message that had just vibrated through.

Q.

_Vauxhall tube station, Platform 2, 8pm._

He pocketed the phone with a small smile and continued on his way out of the building. _Well, can’t let the saddle get too cold now can we,_ he thought to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

An unusually quiet Wednesday evening, the post-rush hour lull was possibly Q’s favourite time of the day, all too often caught in the throng and press of morning commuter bodies, jostling for rapidly diminishing space in a world determined to fold in upon itself. He sat down and pulled a book from his bag with a mind to kill the seven minute wait for his train home.

_ Speaking of killing…. _

Q felt the larger-than-death presence take a seat next to him. “That looks interesting. What is it?”

Q didn’t look up. “Brave New World. Aldous Huxley.” 

The body shifted, leaning back and out of Q’s peripheral vision. “Any good?”

“Not much of a reader, I take it,” sounding every bit as prim as he looks, thought Bond to himself. He mentally set himself the challenge of extracting all that posh right out of the younger man before morning and wrapping it up a nice little ribbon to leave on Q’s bedside table.

“More of a classics man myself.” He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I like my material more… retro with a vintage twist?”

Q tipped his head in Bond’s direction, unable to hide the quirk of his lips. He didn’t reply, merely stood to board the tube train that had only just come to a halt on the platform.

Bond followed. The men sat opposite each other, Q lost himself in the words flowing past his eyes, focus intent. Bond, for his part, continued to study his mark, the bored expression carefully trained, giving little away but mild interest.

The aloofness was, admittedly, very attractive. The bespectacled boffin wore it like Bond would wear a made-to-order suit. In other words, really rather well. Bond studied him for tells or quirks, any signs that his steel-blue focussed attentions were getting under the Quartermaster’s skin. As if reading his mind, Q looked up then, mirroring his mildly bored expression while turning a page and then lazily training his eyes on its content again. It was all Bond could do not to laugh at the sheer brazenness of this unknown entity, evidently as cool and collected as the agent himself when presented with an interesting subject or problem to be solved. 

Ten minutes of trading looks later, they disembarked the train, Bond remaining a modest distance behind. He stalked him - for want of a better description - back to his humble living quarters. Neither man had spoken, exchanged pleasantries or so much as acknowledged each other, right up until the point they reached Q’s front door. While he briefly rummaged around the bottom of his bag to retrieve his key, Bond closed the seconds of distance between them and laid a warm light touch on Q’s hip. He more breathed the words against Q’s neck than spoke them.

“You are an intriguing puzzle, Quartermaster. I’m very much looking forward to working you out.”

Q replied as he slipped the key into the lock. “Be careful what you wish for, Bond. You might find I’m more of a Pandora’s Box,” he said matter-of-factly.

“And I get to open you up…”

Bond couldn’t see his face but he hoped his sense of the smile on Q’s features was there as he suspected. He shut the door behind them while Q divested his coat and slipped off his shoes. Strolling into his kitchen and still without looking at the agent, he said with a wave of his hand, “Bedroom’s down there. Ensuite bathroom should you require.”

It was then Bond raised an eyebrow, but reached to loosen the knot in his tie nonetheless. “Not even a cup of coffee?”

Q sighed. “My tenure at MI6 may be so far brief, Bond, but I find pragmatism when dealing with the Double Os has stood me in good stead thus far.”

Bond stopped halfway through unbuttoning his shirt and tilted his head with a vague expression of curiosity planted there. “A Quartermasterly initiation for all the agents? You surprise me Q,” doing his best not to sound surprised at all.

“Don’t be ridiculous, 007,” he replied, making to stroll past the man and lead him to the bedroom himself, just as Bond grabbed him by the upper arm and pushed him against the wall.

Looking at the offending hand on his slim but firm bicep, Q’s look was half threatening, half amused. “As Quartermaster, I handle the weapons in this scenario, _Commander_. You’ll be doing us both an immeasurable service by remembering that.” 

He dropped his hand and Q continued towards the bedroom, Bond himself standing still, half amused, half incredulous at being played so deftly by this new and interesting addition to his world.

Q stopped at the bedroom door and looked over his shoulder, and over the rim of his glasses, at an unmoving 007. Bond was struck then, by the fire simmering beneath the aloof veneer, the demure look instantly triggering his arousal.

“Coming? Or are you planning on wanking yourself off in my hallway?”

_Cocky little arse._

“Seeing as you ask so nicely Q, the former part of that question is exactly what I plan to do,” said Bond low and smooth, following him into the bedroom and shutting the door behind them. Good thing too. It probably wouldn’t have gone down very well with Q had Bond shot one of his curious and perpetually nosy cats.


	3. Chapter 3

“Sit.”

“I was expecting the command to be strip,” Bond raised an eyebrow teasingly but complied. While all too happy to disregard and fly in the face of orders from his superiors in the field, when the distinct possibility of a well-earned bout of carnal pleasure was on the cards, he was more than happy to be dealt into the game.

Q pulled up a chair and sat opposite him, crossed his legs and leaned forward, draping an arm casually across his knee.

“So what is it exactly you hope to get out of this little seduction, Bond?”

“Laid, I imagine. Though I’d also quite enjoy hearing you scream my name in that posh, clipped diction of yours.”

Q sat back and Bond, well accustomed to and experienced in reading the tells and nuances of others, had the distinct impression that he was reading his soul. He fought an uncomfortable urge to shift and, admirably it had to be said, held Q’s stare.

“Are you just going to sit there admiring the view, or are you going to test the weapons, Quartermaster?”

He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “I’m not sure yet. I may have to put some protective layers in place. This particular weapon is renowned for its unpredictable habit of going off without any warning or preamble.”

“Then what exactly are we doing here?”

“Motives.”

Bond tilted his head forward questioningly. “Motives…”

Q huffed. “Your Quartermaster’s knowledge does extend beyond a talent for weapons and coding you know, Bond. And though I know you will not admit to it, likely won’t even admit the fact to yourself, the immeasurable loss you have experienced recently is no doubt a key factor in your current position. In my flat. On my bed.”

He paused, allowing the words to sink in, and despite a well-maintained composure, Q knew his words were having an effect.

“You’re looking for a connection, Bond, a grounding. I feel it only fair to be completely transparent with you on the fact that I cannot give it.”

“I don’t find you that interesting, Q. In fact, I do actually just want a hard, fast tumble and I’ll be out of your hair before morning,” he stated gruffly, before reaching for Q’s forearm and tugging him to his feet to face each other. In the same move, he pushed him back against the wall next to the window and gently ground their hips together.

Q moved with him, unresistant. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard that? I have a bad habit of attracting people who become dependent on me. I can’t give them what they need. Not in our line of work.”

Bond hadn’t ceased the gentle but insistent undulation of his hips against Q’s own.

“I’m sure it’s not lost on you Q, that I am already dependent on you.”

“Professionally yes but—“

“We can keep this professional. We’re both grownups. Well…” Bond whispered, studying his boyish features with a hint of a smile curling his lips.

Q merely rolled his eyes at the man and fixed his eyes on his mouth. Bond leaned in. Q dipped his head.

“I didn’t have you down as coy, Q,” he murmured through a chuckle. 

“I simply want to reiterate that we do this on my terms or not at all.”

Bond took the hint and stepped back, hands in the air before dropping them to his sides.

“Whatever you want, Quartermaster. Where would you like me?”

He stood in mild confusion for a moment when Q brushed passed him and left the bedroom. He returned ten seconds later, closed the door again and tossed a bottle on the bed, Bond laughing softly when he saw what it was.

“I recall promising you salve,” Q stated succinctly while he approached the agent with a casual smirk, pulling his jumper over his head with one hand while pushing the agent onto his bed. "Though I didn't specify where exactly I'd be applying it."

“That you did and no you didn't. But I’m always pleasantly surprised when a man or woman keeps their promises,” mumbled Bond, pulling his half-undone shirt over his head before his back hit the bed. “It’s a rare treat in this day and age.”

Q paused to take in the expanse of scarred, tanned skin beneath him.

Bond lay still under the scrutiny. “Do they bother you? The scars?”

“I’m more concerned with the inner scars, Bond. The ones I can’t see but know very well are there. No amount of salve can ease the sting of those ones,” he whispered, running long fingers down his chest.

“Q.”

“Yes?”

“Shut the fuck up, open that bottle and get to work. Your weapons only stay in decent working order if you tend to them properly.”

And this time, Q complied. 

So it was for the next hour, Q worked his way through every erogenous zone known to man and a few Bond had never actually explored, despite his legendary reputation and accumulated knowledge of horizontal activities.

It was a slow build and Bond had no complaints. Occasionally frustrated in the first half hour by Q’s insistence at paying attention to every part of his body except the one Bond actually wanted him to, thereafter, he could see where Q was going, his climax sneaking up on him and catching him completely off-guard. When it hit, the thought flashed in his mind that had he been on a mission and the climax had been an enemy, he’d be dead. As it was, for the first time in his life, James Bond had a brain-melting orgasm. What was different about this particular one was the course it took through his entire body, without his Quartermaster once laying a hand on his cock.

As the post-climatic haze cleared, Bond realised exactly _why_ Q’s bedfellows might be prone to becoming a little more than enamoured with the man. Putting that thought firmly to the back of his mind and not looking at it too closely, he rolled the younger man onto his back and proceeded to give him a blow job that left Q wondering if Bond's tongue had its own personal fitness regimen.


	4. Chapter 4

Q was departing Moneypenny’s office post-meeting with M, when he rounded the corner and almost collided with Bond, back from his latest shenanigans in the field involving the Quantum Group and the nefarious Mr White to whom Bond owed a debt or two.

As usual, he looked battered, bruised and altogether like another round with LeChiffre would be preferable to the tongue-lashing he was about to receive from the sharp end of his superior.

“007,” he said calmly, barely acknowledging the man in an attempt to slide passed him with the barest of interactions. Bond, however, was having none of that. He took him by the forearm, the grip reminiscent of their not-so-distant encounter in Q’s home.

Both men were looking ahead and passed each other when Bond spoke. “I need to see you. Later,” his voice gruff and demanding.

The equally stubborn Quartermaster was equally and in kind having none of _that,_ thank you very much.

“I’m afraid this brief and unmemorable encounter will have to suffice, 007. I’m busy,” he said briskly, attempting to extricate himself from the agent’s grip. And while Bond relented his hold without much argument, a quick glance at his expression told Q that while he was not prepared to take the conversation any further outside M’s office, the conversation itself was far from over.

* * *

The day was done, pints had been devoured and a warm and charming body had been engaged at a nearby drinking establishment. Q leaned against the door to his flat, tilting his head to allow his date for the evening exploratory rights.

“Thank you for inviting me back,” his auburn-haired companion murmured while Q retrieved his keys. “Not that you seem inexperienced or anything but I get the impression you don’t do this kind of thing very often.”

“Well, deduced, Daniel. That I do not.”

Q could feel the ghost of a smile against his neck as he pushed the door open. “Christ, your voice…”

….pushed open a door on the other side of which was the unmistakeable silhouette of one wayward agent standing at the door to his living room and a cat sitting on the back of the sofa bathed in the streetlight coming in through the room’s bay window, obviously keen to observe the imminent showdown. Q fumbled for the light switch.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he said with a cool levelness, though Bond knew that voice was when Q was reigning in his anger at its most pronounced. 

“What?” His date unburying his face from Q’s neck looked up in momentary confusion.

“Tell him to leave.” Bond demanded.

Q barked a laugh. “I don’t bloody think so. You’re the one breaking and entering.”

Daniel made to pull out his phone. “One more move and those fingers of yours won’t be used for dialling purposes or anything more intimate any time soon.”

Bond strolled forward as he said the words, threat and non-threat expressed in equal and disarming part, and much to Q’s flustered dismay, he watched slightly agape, as Bond grabbed his date by the waist, hoisting him a foot off the ground and parking him quite ceremoniously outside the door. “Hey!” Daniel shouted indignantly.

“Bye then,” said Bond, twirling his fingers in a mock wave once before slamming the door and rounding on Q, looking equally indignant at the interruption to his evening’s entertainment.

He’d only just slipped his jacket halfway down his arms in preparation of giving Bond a piece of his mind, ready to let rip, when Bond pinned him to the wall and swallowed the breath of his indignation with hard, seeking, demanding lips.

“We did it your way last time,” he said matter-of-factly breaking away but maintaining close proximity, in a tone that promised bruises from his mouth and hands that would take days to heal. “Now we do it mine.”

He pushed Q backwards towards the bedroom, kissing his futile protests silent. Q pushed him away with equal force for the briefest of moments, getting in a protest anyway.

“Christ, Bond, you’re such an insufferable prick.”

“I know,” came the candid, unashamed response.

_Fuck it,_ thought Q, gripping his shoulders hard and pulling him in again. Half aroused from Daniel’s earlier attentions, letting himself over to the feel of Bond unzipping his trousers and sliding his hand smoothly beneath the fabric to grip the wakening arousal therein. He yielded, somewhat reluctantly, but accepted his fate nonetheless. 

For tonight anyway. 

* * *

**45 minutes later.**

“Do you have any inkling why you come here, Bond? And when you come here?”

Bond was lying on his back, breathing heavily beside him, a hand behind his head, mild bemusement in the expression that turned his head to face the Quartermaster, briefly considering the question before tossing it aside. He kept his peace, knowing Q would tell him regardless of any conversational engagement on the subject.

“Tonight, the why is Strawberry Fields. The when is immediately after the unfortunate fact that she is no more.”

Q unforgiving, and rightly so perhaps, continued his dissection. Bond, like he did most things, took it on the chin, or the balls, situation dependant.

“A good agent by all accounts. Yet another notch you can add to your bedpost of doom, 007.  Laid and then laid to rest…”

Bond tilted his head again, almost a subconscious physical attempt to dodge the unrepentant analysis of the situation by the Quartermaster. “Now who’s being the insufferable prick?” he asked with the barest touch of anger. “Trying to make me shut you up, Q?”

“You can try,” he replied smugly. 

So Bond did.

And Q _burned_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last scene. Hope you all enjoyed the interlude. Back to "There's Something About Q!"

The Silva affair rocked the SIS to its core. Dangers and threats were always possible from within, but when they extended beyond the realms of for example, extortion of secrets and their subsequent sale to the highest bidder (you know, the easy-to-grasp stuff in the world of espionage) and ventured into personal vendettas? Well. Such dangers are unquantifiable. They are defined by the very individual driving their agenda and individuals are unpredictable, messy creatures with no rhyme, reason or respect for the rules that govern the terms of engagement on such a battlefield.

The fallout was catastrophic. Vulnerabilities lay open like gushing wounds and the Whitehall vultures were already swooping down and devouring their fill. But through all the turmoil and unpredictability, the Quartermaster shrugged it off and sought stability for his department in the Bunker beneath the Thames, away from prying bureaucratic eyes intent on holding someone to task for the disaster. In the end, they chose to quietly label Silva insane and M, the object of his rage and love in equal measure, the unfortunate collateral damage. Sometimes, a brief flare in the brutality of chaos was just what was needed to recoil an unravelling world.

Though in James Bond’s case, such chaos was the perpetual state of motion in which he existed and recoil in his case usually involved experiencing a rather brutal case of whiplash. 

* * *

**In the Q Branch Bunker**

Q was working round the clock. A self-inflicted penance he supposed dispassionately, for his part in Silva’s getting the better of him and subsequently robbing them of the finest Head of SIS in a long while.

Given all that had happened, and given the circumstances of their previous encounters, it should not have at all been a revelation to see 007 strolling through the bunker doors late one evening, only a few days after his return from Skyfall. So when he did, any surprise was well and truly contained.

Q placed the equipment on which he was working carefully to one side and stepped around his workbench as Bond approached. Slower than he cared to admit he wanted, Bond moved towards him. Deeper than he expected came the kiss that was swiftly followed by one hand sliding around his waist and the other around the back of his neck to intertwine silky strands. Wholly unexpected was the surge of gentleness that accompanied the meeting of Bond’s cool lips against his, a tenderness to which Q had not previously been on the receiving end.

“What do you want, Bond? What on earth do you expect to come from this?”

Bond continued to crowd his space but gave the query due thought for a few moments. “I’ve tried to share the pain by loving those I’ve allowed close.”

Evidently, the impact of M’s death had reverberated chain links of even Bond’s iron-encased soul.

“You think _I’m_ the one to share your pain?” Q’s tone soft and mildly incredulous.

“I don’t. Not yet. But she did. You’re the constant.” He kissed him again. “Constant presence. Constant baseline. Constant,” he murmured, eyes intent.

His look turned gently mischievous as he glanced behind Q and over his shoulder. “Desk?”

Q rolled his eyes. For Goodness sake, Bond, certainly not,” automatically lapsing into their snark-laden banter. “My desk is a finely mapped out scale model of my mind. For today at least. I won’t have you disrupt. No matter how good a bloody shag you are.”

He pushed Bond away and stepped towards a side room. “Follow me.”

* * *

Q’s bunk room was modest to say the least. A cat bed in the corner, a desk for his laptop and some books, a side table and a low slung bed graced with a comfortable mattress on which currently lay an agent and his Quartermaster, sharing nothing more than intimate space, gentle caresses and soft kisses.

“But I’ll burn you. I burn everything I touch. It all turns to ash.”

Q sighed against his neck. “Nice try, Bond. But despite your best efforts, obviously I’m still here. So no. You won’t.” He leaned back and propped a tousled head on a hand to look at Bond’s profile in the soft light. “My profession demands that I am rather deft and highly skilled at handling combustible materials. I’ve practically fire-proofed myself over the years.”

He scrutinised the man, reverting to his Quartermasterly tone from their prior encounter. “Do you have any inkling why you come here, Bond? And when you come here?”

“You asked me that the last time,” breathed Bond, long and a little resigned.

“And last time I answered for you. But every time is different. And I think you know the answer this time.” 

“Absolution…” he whispered softly, raw and honest. For a change. 

“That, I cannot give. Nor can you give me. I am not your confessor.”

“I watched them die. I let them die.” 

“There are always casualties in war, Bond. You’ve bore witness to that more than once. You’ve never burdened yourself with their deaths before. Don’t start now. It is the very thing that has kept you alive.”

“Her last words…”

“Bond,” Q intoned brusquely. “That is between you and M. I have no reason to know. You and I hardly qualify for such a level of sharing.”

Bond ignored him. _“At least you got one thing right.”_ He had turned his head to look into Q’s eyes as he spoke the words.

Q couldn’t help the small smile which Bond took upon himself to unhesitatingly kiss away.

The cauldron in which they existed was a simmering, bubbling mess. And in the midst of the merging of ingredients, a crafty chef had recognised two elements capable of the catalytic reaction needed to stabilise the mix. 

Crafty, old bitch, thought Q as he sank beneath the insistent mouth of the agent rolling above him. Died knowing she’d stoked the cauldron’s fire just right.

Q wrapped his body around that of Bond’s. 

How long the fire would burn, was up to them.


End file.
